The Cross Road
by StarsMeNot
Summary: She is Death; dwindling along the line between heaven, hell and earth. He's a demon; bargaining for the life of another. See, how their story unfolds as they pass the lives of us, common day humans.
1. Chapter 1

**The Cross Road**

(A Card Captor Sakura Adaptation)

*Alternate - Universe*

**Summary:**

She is death; dwindling along the line between heaven, hell and earth.

He is the demon, bargaining for the life of another.

**Chapter I**

_She is Death._

_She is neither an Angel nor a Demon. She works for neither God nor Lucifer._

_She is what she is – the Reaper of Souls. She is Death._

_She does what she must because she does so. It's her duty and she must do it._

_She is Death._

_She controls nothing nor is she powerless or powerful. But she is death._

_She neither chooses nor owns a choice – in the matter of soul taking._

_She is only death._

_She appears and reappears, where Death occurs. She takes and she leads._

_It is Death's job to do so. And she is Death._

**London – 1964**

The western hemisphere of the world was yet to wake that early summer morning. The sun had yet to rise and overturn the blanket of faint twinkling of the stars. The moon was hidden, when or where no one could tell – only that it was far earlier than it should have and left its twinkling kingdom barren of its presence. No sound were made (except for the fluttering wings, and the faint sound of a rooster cuckooing the new day, minutes too early, somewhere far away from the city) as everyone lingered a little more longer in their sleep; enjoying their few more minutes away from harsh Reality.

It was the 26th of May in the year of 1964.

Amidst the district of fear and blame, where malice and dignity walked the same steps; where silent screams and pleas were muffled; where blood and life were equal price; where everyone lives and sleeps everywhere; where no man other than the populace itself would dare trek upon its roads, in one of it's red rising blocks of what they now called buildings, lies one called Harry Burton; savouring his last minutes of dreaming and waking.

The room smelled of cheap liquor and pungent unclean comforters; sweat and who knows what else already sewn into the cloths. There were papers and books, crumpled up blue prints of mechanical vehicles ahead of its time and a few rolled and tightly wrapped with strings, as well as food that reeked of age longer than it looked, scattered all over the wooden floor.

The window was left open; the cold morning breeze freely came and left without notice. The rubbish on the floor were floating and circling along its own path; weightless and carefree. In the centre of all this mess was a mattress, thick and faded that its color was now undistinguishable whether it was brown or grey; lacking the wooden frame to carry it and its blonde haired companion lying on top of it. Topless and half-covered by his blanket, he tossed and turned in his bed; Dreaming.

In his dream, he dreamed. He dreamt of flying through London town, in his flying contraption he dreamed of calling an Aerial Ship– the first fully functional steam powered Aerial contraption in theory (Forty years ahead of its time.)

He flew over buildings and streets, crowds cheering him on and applauding his accomplishment. He flew through the city and drifted off into an unfamiliar abyss – bright and promising. As the city slowly faded behind him, clouds out of nowhere appeared not far ahead; dark and ominous. And somehow, he knew that once he gripped on those tendrils (more commonly called as belts) wrapped around his torso, the only thing keeping him from falling off his _**Aerial Ship**_, the wind will rise and take his ship further forward until the dark clouds swallowed him whole; blind and defenceless.

And so it did happen. Just as he knew it would be.

He saw hazy smoke, grey. He saw lightning. Then there was darkness then, nothing.

He heard thunder. He heard screaming (whether it was his or others he did not know.) Then there was silence, then, nothing.

For what seemed like eternity, he could not wake up. If he had, he didn't expect hell to be this utterly uneventful. He continued to float in whatever eternity he was in; sinking deeper and deeper into his nightmare.

And when all hope was lost to him, a bright light blinded him into waking. His eyes slowly fluttered open; amazement, delight and gratitude to whatever God allowed him to come back from that darkness and into this old rotten apartment of his again to take sight upon his familiar ochre ceilings.

Then there was pain, excruciating and paralyzing, settling in his chest as if whatever it was had began, agonizingly slow, eating his heart.

And as soon as the pain began, the sooner it disappeared and he allowed the sudden exhaustion from the pain overcome him. And succumbing once more to that now all too familiar darkness he now loathed and slightly feared.

The next time he opened his eyes, he was no longer on the hard mattress but rather standing on his wooden floor; his cotton knit socks still warming his seemingly weightless feet as he gawked at his own body – corpse, to be more precise, looking as if he was only in a deep slumber that even he dared not wake himself.

He looked at himself, imagining this to be another dream, perplexed and disbelieving that the corpse of the youthful but tired-looking young gentleman on his mattress was indeed no one else but him – Harry Burton.

"Crap," he cursed under his breath, _if he had any._

And in his moment of revelation, it was then that she took form and appeared by his side; small and alluring; in no way threatening and frightening, clad in a faded pink overcoat that reached around mid-thigh, neither tight nor loose around her body, leaving very much to the imagination of her witnesses.

"I believe it would be odd, the emotion you are feeling," she interrupted, voice soft and smooth like it was neither a child's nor an adult's and her words were distant and plain – not questioning but rather commenting.

He turned his head, gazed at the pale-faced beauty beside him who also glanced upon his corpse and might have believed that she was the reason of his death. She looked to him like a dazzling beauty rather than what he knew she was, with her swaying shoulder length auburn hair and her clear emerald orbs; He just never expected that Death would be so beautiful.

"So…its over just like that?" he asks back, a faint sigh following his question as he forced his eyes off of her and back to his still dead self.

"Yes," she replied simply.

There was silence.

"You're **the** Death?" he asks, cautious but unafraid. What more does he have to lose anyway? He was dead.

She turned her head and looked at him, green orbs boring into hers as a small vivid smile crept on her lips. "Yes. And you are Harry Burton," she replies back, a cold glow emitting from her.

"And it's time, Harry Burton."

Harry sighed once more and nodded with his shoulders drooped. He took her outstretched hand, clasping onto her for dear life--- or death.

And they walked, bright light replacing their fading figures. And slowly they disappeared till there was nothing, only the echo of Harry's question left unanswered: What's behind there? The room was left unchanged, except for the replacement of the living occupant with a corpse.

As the sun started to rise, a knock interrupted the serenity over the room and was followed by a piercing scream which sent birds watching from the window sill flying for their feathers; the city woke from their fears and fantasies; and journalists and police men flocked to the apartment building and into Harry Burton's room to just pass a glance.

The busy rustling London of 1964 was now awake.

_She is everywhere. She follows everyone and no one. _

_She lingers the street; visible and invisible; appearing and disappearing _

_where duty calls for her. She is Death. _

_She has been there in the beginning. She shall be there in the end. _

_She is the end. She is Death. _

_She watches over mankind, counting down each and everyone's time till the last sand drops and she is once again needed. _

_**She is Death. **_

* * * * * *

There was a time when he was considered a God among the living. A time when people still killed animals and offered blood to have him present. But that had long ended ever since the years of our lord. It was then that his worshipped name had turned foul and called heretic, demonic and occult. He was left roaming the earth waiting for his preys now in the most cryptic points on Earth: the Cross Roads.

He knew he could get a larger demographic if he joined _Matthias_ and the other simpletons of his kind dressed up as humans, charading in their skin to bring them closer to their own Armageddon. But "Chrestox" was a demon as old as time. He was even one of the few who dared taunt the first of mankind into the temptuous life of evil. And was even the first to succeed.

He'd always understood how desire controlled mankind, from the very first man who gave everything for gold and the man who gave up everything for his carnal desires; and how easy it is, for him, to use against them.

Nonetheless, he had grown fond of his adopted human flesh and how practical it was in fulfilling his job, rather than lurking in the shadows and speaking in tongues incoherent to his victims.

Clad in a sleek black suit with a strikingly clean white shirt underneath, a discernible red tie carelessly wrapped around his neck in a lose knot and a sparkling grey fedora, he stands by a wooden door that seemed to stand all on its own in the middle of an extremely infinite dark room.

He carefully takes his hat off his head and clips it at his side, and with a swift hand skilfully combs his chocolate locks, magically not ruining the inconspicuous clump of hair symmetrically aligned on both sides which vaguely simulated horns with his shadow as he waits for her.

He knew she'd pop in sooner or later. No one can die and not go through the door to Judgement; it was part of the cycle. He slowly slides his hands into his pockets, looking up in time to see a faint spark in the distance – the only thing causing anything close to light in this realm.

A small smirk crept up his lips as he pulled out a cigarette stick from his pocket, snapping his fingers by the opposite end and sparking a small ball of flame with his fingertips and bringing the cancer stick to life, while still holding his hat by his side. He holds the stick with his mouth and inhales the addicting nicotine smoke into his lungs, exhales the rest through his nostrils, his lungs impenetrable by human nonsense such as cancer.

There was a snap – not his, and then the whole infinite dark abyss was filled with light; slightly blinding his amber orbs.

He watched the creator of the light frown at him.

He grinned and she grimaced.

She walks along with her new soul in tow, ignoring him as she took slow and brief strides towards him while the mid-twenties looking man behind her hovered over the inexistent floor. Or more precisely, towards the door he was leaning on. He stands upright, hides his hands in his pockets and exhales another cloud of grey murderous smoke.

The pair in front of him lingered a little longer in front of the door, fear and anxiety obvious in the human's face in contrast with her calm and soft face as she stretched her hand forward and smiled warmly at him, almost flirting and inviting. "No more backing out," she even added, earning her a nod and a reluctant step into the door.

He retrieves his hat from his sides and tucks his hair underneath its cover, averting his gaze away from the bright and blinding light from the door as she lead in the man. He leaves the cap on, finishing the cigarette in his mouth before letting it fall into the darkness that had suddenly occupied the realm once more.

"I see you're still alive, Chrestox," she said, her voice suddenly cold and lifeless.

He grinned at her as he brushed off the traces of ashes that got caught on his beautiful black suit. "Why wouldn't I be?" he inquired, curious as to why she would comment on his survival so blatantly like that; the seriousness of his concern lacking in his voice.

She brushed it off and shrugged her shoulders.

"Just being hopeful, I suppose." She finally replied.

"Of my untimely demise?" he couldn't help but ask back with an amused smirk, knowing fully well the contrasts they had with each other despite their long term friendship by now. Well, he thought he could consider their relationship as somewhat friendship based other than anything.

"Come now, you have souls to torment as I have souls to bring to heaven and hell," she replies, averting the topic again to her previous commentaries. She turned on her heel, her shoe squeaking despite the physical lacking of a floor.

He followed without another word.

She lead the way to her home, a place he had now memorized like the back of his hand if it wasn't so hard to trace in any spiritual universe. No matter the countless times she had lead him to that same never changing spot, he still in no possible way, could ever reach the destination again without her consent.

All he could only remember with each journey was the path: long and tiring if you were human, since with each step the sun dipped deeper and deeper in the sky and light easily left without anyone's control and the moon neither joined his stars to bring light to it's hopeful travellers.

Until, amidst this darkness and gloomy malevolence, light soars through the sky again and dawn breaks. And he found himself in the middle of an old country road, somewhere in mid 1700s England, which lead to a lone and humble cottage in the middle of a moody grass land which he thought, usually depicted her mood.

And today it willed variation of pink faunas and appeared to be a sea of pink petals, surrounding a small brown collared cottage with a giant three-headed dog waiting patiently for its master's call.

The dog, named _Ceroberus _but affectionately called _Kero_ by its owner, hated his guts. He could never understand why, but he too returned the abhorrence for the latter.

"_**Demon dog**_," he snarled under his breath, something which wasn't low enough to evade her ears since she giggled at the comment.

"Demon's hate their brethren do they?" she asked back with a playful smile, regaining her cheerful vigor and friendlier disposition.

As they approached her home closer and closer, the three headed dog began shrinking and shrinking until it was a normal sized dog, furry and hairy but nonetheless, still huge and taller than Death when it stands up. It ran toward her, nuzzling her neck as it climbed on her and she carried the weight all by herself as she scratched its sides.

She gently pushed the dog down and magically attached a chain like leash to her pet's collar and leads him into her home, momentarily forgetting that she still had company other than her pet.

He doesn't take this to heart, knowing fully well the immense fondness she had for that **mongrel** and in return, the **mongrel** for her. He walks into her home after her, without evading a few snaps and growls from the **mongrel. **

She disappeared suddenly and left him in the middle of her living room alone. He takes this as his chance to look around and familiarize himself with her home again, seeing that she had been to the future with the sudden taste for modern furniture with still a hint of Japanese antiquity to it's designs.

He took his cap off and rested it on the small black lacquer table in the middle of the room and took a seat on the sofa beside it, before he pulled out another cigarette stick and slipped it into his mouth and beginning another blitzkrieg of smoke on other people's territory.

There was an awkward cough, something not human or was rather intended than induced by the smoke.

He turned around at the voice and clearly saw an irritated Death glaring at him from the stair case. He grinned at her before wiping the stick into disappearing before picking up his hat again and poorly resting it over his head.

"What are your demands today, Demon?" she snapped begrudgingly, taking a seat opposite him and crossing her leg over the other.

"Oh, don't be like that Sakura," he replies back, smug and impish.

She glared at him once more, her glare more fierce and furious with the mention of that name.

_No one mentions that name to her._

"You'd like that, wouldn't you Syoaran?" she replied back, voice cold and furious. If only she could kill demons, the glare would have been enough.

_And no one mentions that name to him._

_*****_

**StarMeNot: **Sorry for the mistakes and hate parts. I just really couldn't help myself. This was supposed to be an original story but I missed **SxS **so much I knew I just had to adapt it somehow. Hope for reviews, especially criticisms. It's been so long since I've written anything I'm willing to publish so..*cross fingers*...hope you like it. :)

Inspiration? This is probably a result of too much coffee, boredom, insomnia, a new pen and notebook and too much reading Neil Gaiman stories along side Supernatural episodes. I'm still in developing the whole plot line on how it's going to work so any suggestions from readers is also welcomed.

**Also looking for a beta reader for the next upcoming chapters. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**"The Crossroad "**

**_- The Death & Demon affair -_  
**

**Chapter II**

**December 25, 2000**

'Alcoholic Delights; Bittersweet sentiments.; Tragic lullabies; Meaningless Epiphanies; Violent endings. Everywhere—inevitable pain lingers behind lush filled innocent eyes waiting to pounce on them in the form of tears. If there is such a God, how cruel can he be?' she asks, voice strained as she looked up from the pews where she knelt with her face once burrowed in her cold trembling palms. She looked pale, white and contrasting with her fiery red hair. She had bruises under her eyes, faint but evident. She was exhausted, that much was obvious. She closed her eyes again, burrowing into the comfort of her palms as tears began forming around the rim of her eyes and falling gently to tease her cold-stricken palms.

She stopped her breathing, closing her eyes tightly and wiped the tears with the back of her hand, quickly reaching for a pale white handkerchief in her pocket to aid with the drying of her eyes while her free hand reached for her overcoat which gently laid on the empty space next to her. She was alone in the dimly lit hospital chapel, finding her need to pray more waning as she continued to stay there. She passed one last glance at the large Cross in the middle of the room where an embedded golden pain outlined its features. She sighed bitterly as thoughts of God's existentialism continued to battle in her mind.

It probably wouldn't matter anyway.

She'd lost hope.

She slowly wrapped her grey _Chanel_ overcoat around her, left the first two buttons on the top unbuttoned to give her some breathing space, and clutched her hands in her pockets. She stepped out of the Church and into the busy welcoming area of the hospital, counting the people that sat on wheelchairs dragged around by nurses and the other group that included people that sat on wheelchairs and were being pushed out into the freedom of being cured for the rest of their life or until a new outbreak comes along.

She sighed at the thoughts that were filling her head and shook it lightly, tempted to go to the nearby gift shop and by at least one packet of sweet sweet cigarettes. She clutched an invisible rock in both her hands and began walking towards the nearest elevator, taking the route farthest from the gift shop and trying her best to not bump into any of the patients crowding the first floor. The reason for her dilemma was in the seventh floor.

She reached the front of the elevator in a short time and stopped to wait, watching the numbers idly descend until it finally read one. She looked back down, walked in when the doors opened and pressed the number 7 button and waited for the doors to close, seeing that he was the only occupant. The doors were half closed when a foot appeared in the middle to stop it from closing and an unbelievably attractive ebony haired man peered in with a sheepish grin on his face.

'Oh, Dear God.' She thought to herself faintly at the sight.

**December 21, 2000**

Jingle bells rang in the air, melodic and calming to her ears, and danced along to the scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and warm milk. She could just die then and there, recalling her frilly childhood of opening gifts and dancing next to the fire place while she stuffed herself with more cookies.

She grinned lightly at the memory, hugging her overcoat closer around her body, keeping herself as warm as possible. She rubbed her hands together, breathing on them and watched her breath clearly fogging in front of her. She increased her pace, looking up ahead, excited to see her home nearer and nearer.

In a few more minutes, she arrived, the door unlocked and the scent of Christmas dinner taunting her senses. She smiled excitedly, closed and locked the door behind her as she slowly walked down the hall, admiring the couple in the picture frames hanging on the wall as she did so.

She stopped by the door way into the kitchen, peering on her husband cooking the mouth-wateringly smelling dinner. She grinned as she leaned on the door frame, a small serene and elated expression morphing into her face as she watched her husband happy and content as he cooked.

"Alex," she called out.

The man turned around, his brunette locks swaying from the action as his bright blue orbs bore into her hazel ones. He smiled at her, eyes asking a 'What?' as he looked at her.

"I love you," she whispered, slightly breathless.

He grinned and put down whatever he was holding and walked towards her, held her face with his hand clad in cooking mittens shaped like a dog and cat respectively, and placed one long kiss on her lips – something she welcomed and replied to eagerly.

She giggled when she pulled away and slapped her husband's cheek flippantly. He grinned. "Fine, Rach, I love you too." He said in a mocking tone and surprised her with another kiss.

She pulled away again, giggling. "Isn't it too early for a Christmas dinner, Alex?" she asked. He chuckled at the question and shook his head. "Do you want to eat or not?" he asked back, a coy grin on his face.

"Go finish cooking unless you want me to takeover." She teased.

"Oh no! I want to make it through winter, my dear," He replied back, touching his chest with a feigned expression of hurt on his face.

Rachelle hit her husband's arm and stuck her tongue out, kissed his cheek and pushed him back in front of the stove. She left the kitchen and got changed.

**December 25, 2000**

**( 1****st**** Floor Elevator)**

"Sorry," he interrupted the silence with his smooth sultry voice, walked in and stood beside him. He flashed a weak yet slightly nonchalant smile her way and she forced a smile of her own and nodded curtly.

She cursed at God in her thoughts, pondering once more how truly cruel this omnipotent being they succumb to really is. She silently watches the man from the corner of her eye as he stepped forward and pressed the number 6 button.

He was breathtaking, almost like a fallen angel with his devilishly good looks and the lustful sleek black suit he wore. She thought lucky enough of herself to have been in a presence of man as fine as he was.

He looked at her again and grinned, making her wonder if there was something awfully amusing with her face. She looked away and saw her reflection on the elevator walls – there was nothing on her face as far as she could tell. The man's light hazel orbs, almost a distinct golden amber, caught her emerald ones again, making her feel weak and dizzy all of the sudden.

He smirked.

She looked away and focused her attention on the ascending numbers ticking over the doors. 3 more floors and he could get off and leave her with her dignity. With this thought in mind, she sighed a breath of relief, leaning on the wall for support as she counted the seconds until the number changed to four.

It never came.

The next scene was a montage of flickering lights and shaking, followed by screaming beyond the metallic walls and horror-stricken eyes reflecting hers in the wall. The man beside her, rested his back on the wall, hand fumbling for something in his pocket as his gleaming golden orbs caught her attention back to them.

"Well, Mrs. Rachel Atkinson. How're you this morning?" he asked, husky and inviting with every fall and rise of his breath and tone.

"H-how do you know my name?" She asked nervously, frightened that she might die within the next few minutes if she didn't get out of that elevator soon.

"I can not 'cause you harm. If that is what you're worried about," he informed her, pulling out a stick of cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, held it with his lip and lit it with a curiously designed lighter. It had intricate swirls and contours on its metallic skin that she couldn't help but stare at it. He hid it back in his pocket and offered her a stick. She declined.

He nods in understanding, shoving the stick back in his pocket, probably destroying it or breaking it in half in the process. He takes a long drag, blowing the smoke into the video camera by the corner, its once red blinking light fading off slowly.

"I have very little time to talk to you, so I shall keep it short and to the point, my dear. If that is fine with you?" he informed her, waiting for her to nod in agreement- which she

did.

"I come here with a proposal, something that I'm sure would pique your interest." He told her in that seductive tone of his. "I offer you're husband a cure. A new life. "

"Are you a doctor?" she asked, voice more brave now that he has assured her that her life is safe., genuinely interested He shook his head to her question.

"What are you?" she asked, standing up and walking to the opposite end of the elevator, close to the door, to face him.

"You don't want to know," he replied, cold and indifferent as he leaned forward, eyes gleaming with a malevolent countenance to it and somehow, she could see a vague shadow of a man with horns behind him.

She fell speechless.

"Life. Happiness. Cure. All of it, just for one tiny little thing." He interrupted, waiting till she could process everything that he offered to announce the price for it all.

There was a spark of understanding in her orbs; he could tell. So, he continued.

"Your soul in my hands."

**December 24, 2000**

The house smelled of musty alcohol stocked in the living room. A cold sweat occupied her for a second and a gasp soon followed afterwards. She had just come home from a quick trip to the office, her editor had been desperate to get her article this late in the winter so she had no choice but to leave her already depressed husband trusting him to not do anything stupid while she was gone.

She raced to the living room, pale and tired from all that she had done today, not ready to face this emotional turmoil ready to erupt. She stared at her husband's unconscious body on the floor, groaning in pain as a bottle of vodka spilled it transparent alcoholic liquid onto her carpet.

"Alex!" she cried, racing to her husband's side and began slapping her cheek, hoping to wake her up but it was useless. She knew how unhealthy he already was.

She stood up and ran to the nearest phone and dialed 911. She tightened her grip around the phone, cursing the seconds it took the woman on the other line to answer her distress call. She looked up at the clock hanging on the wall.

_11: 46 p.m._

**December 25, 2000**

**(7****th**** Floor, Room 723)**

_01: 31a.m._

She held her face in her palm, catching her tears as her husband slept, his vital signs faint but there. She pulled herself together and inched nearer to his almost lifeless body, holding onto his hand, clutching it tightly in her smaller ones, trying to pump life into it. But it was useless.

The doctors have warned them about it before. She never listened. She trusted him enough to make the right decision, to not ruin this marriage by killing himself. She couldn't help it again and the tears started falling down the side of her face once more and she gave up on being strong for the rest of that morning and wept beside her husband.

The doctors said there was little chance he could survive. The alcohol was too much in his system. If they had gotten him earlier, he might have probably gotten a stomach pump and could have been saved. But now, they could only hope that they have done everything they could have to save this man that she loved.

Everything happened so fast, she never even noticed it. She always knew that she might lose him one day, but she never expected it to happen today. Out of all the days. She never expected it. He probably didn't either. Despite how much he wanted it.

He told her. He really did love her. She felt it. She just couldn't feel the pain he felt everyday, the sinking feeling he got every second that made him want to kill himself everyday. She knew how hard it was. She knew she couldn't really help. She just had to be there.

But that was the problem. She wasn't. So she succumbed to the pain and she wept.

She wept at the odds. She wept for the future. She wept for the pain. She wept.

**December 25, 2000**

**(3****rd**** Floor Elevator)**

The lights flickered on; the doors opened; she stared at him, pupils dilated and eyes grim. He stared back at her, face cold and indifferent as usual and waited for her answer. She fled.

He watched her walk away, looking to his side to reveal the presence of another being the woman failed to notice.

"Well, how are you this morning, Sakura?" he asked, a devilish smirk popping into his face, lighting it up and giving it a more than human glow.

"She didn't have a dying husband. Why did you do that?" she asked, looking still at the fleeing woman.

"I don't know, curiosity, I suppose." He replied shrugging, wrapping his arm nonchalantly around the smaller girl's shoulders.

"Let go of me, Syoaran!" she squealed, trying to get away, but was unable to due to the tight clasp the man around her.

"You know you can't leave until we get an answer." He replied with an impish grin and dragged her out onto the floor with him, diverting her away from the crowds to lead her into that floor's own Gift Shop. She shut her mouth after that reminder, seeing that her protests would have been rendered useless anyway.

He let go of her as soon as they were in the small shop and he noticed that the girl's attention was caught by the large array of flowers aligned on the opposite side of the store. He grinned a little at the sight and watched as the usually cold-hearted and indifferent Death was somehow enthralled by the little plants.

He turned around and looked at the different cards on one corner, looking through each one with a distracted interest. Until one in particular caught his attention. It had an illustration of a skeleton wearing beach attire while surf boarding over a huge wave in the front and the supposedly comforting words inside: Death's on a holiday; so should you! Get well soon!

He chuckled as he read it to himself again, flipping the card around to check on the illustration and look at the girl who was Death herself now looking through the boxes of chocolate they had in one aisle.

He walked back towards her, an amused grin still in place and stood behind her, towering over her in an almost threatening way and blocked her view of the chocolates with the front of the card leveled with her face.

"I didn't know death was so skinny." He said, eyeing the pink loose overcoat she wore over whatever she had on underneath. He grinned at the thought, shaking the lustful images his human consort had provided him with.

She grabbed the card free from his grasp and turned around, emerald orbs scrutinizing the picture. "That's not me." She said defiantly.

"That's what the humans think you look like though," he argued back, chuckling at the seriousness on her face. He shook his head at her failure to understand the irony of the human's way of thinking with the actuality of it all.

"I also don't go on holidays." She corrected, crumpling the still unpaid and sealed card onto the floor and stomped on it with her pink loafers.

He watched her in sheer amusement, controlling himself so he would not laugh so loud that it would attract any attention to them. But by the looks of it, even if he did no one would have noticed. Not even the clerk behind the counter engrossed in a gossip magazine.

She glared at him and turned around with a huff to resume looking at the boxes of chocolate. He stopped and smiled at her with a shake of head.

There was a long span of silence between them. None of them making an effort to interrupt it until Sakura found a rather interesting box that was shaped like a lotus flower. She beamed at it and opened it, smiling delightfully at the sight.

"I know why you did that to the girl," she said after taking a bite from it. He raised an eyebrow at her and welcomed her to continue.

"You're interested in her. You're curious as of the emotions she feels for the man, or in more common terms, how she loves the man who had brought nothing to her but worry and pain. You seem to forget that with loves come happiness. And without pain there could not be happiness." She explained, taking a bite from the lotus-shaped chocolate every once in a while.

"You're making a bet with the very little humanity she has left. You're one evil creature aren't you?" she asked back, finishing the piece of chocolate, and waited for his reaction. She received a shrug and a nonchalant nod.

"And worst of it all, you want to know whether she loves the man enough, who she thinks is dying, to venture away from God and save him by yielding to you or become selfish by keeping her soul and hope to God that he works his magic on her husbands." She concluded with a sigh and closed up the now empty box and returned it on the aisle.

He grinned at her, shrugging his shoulders and shoved his hands in his pockets. He leaned forward, their faces inches closer, and grinned at her once more.

"How well you know me, _Nex_." He commented, and even he knew there was bitterness in his tone.

There was a faint voice in his head. It was time. She was to answer. He smirked at her and snapped his fingers and held her hand. "Let's find out shall we." He said, excited.

The next second they reappear in a dark hospital room, the only source of light coming from the beeping monitor next to the patient's bed, with Rachelle next to it weeping.

Sakura disappears in the background, a forlorn expression on her face that he failed to notice. He smirks at the girl, looking at her expectantly. "Well, my dear, shall it be a yes or a no?" he inquired, taking a seat by the edge of the bed and looked down at her tear-strained face.

She frowned and squeezed her husband's hand, hoping to God that he would wake up and take her away from this awful nightmare. There was no reply; no pulse; nothing. She sighed and wiped her tears with the back of her arm and looked into his golden amber orbs.

"Please, just save my Alex," she answered, weeping once more as soon as the word leaves her.

Syoaran smirked at Sakura triumphantly, reaching for Rachelle's hand and placed one soft kiss, leaving his invisible mark on her soul in the process and got up. Disappeared and left.

The lights went on once again and the Vital stats on the screen sky rocketed to normal and his fingers started ticking slowly until his eyelids opened up and he started smiling at her. She jumped onto the bed and into her arms, kissing him continuously until he groaned in pain.

**December 25, 2000**

Syoaran sat on top of the Hospital's roof, looking at the New York City's bright night life with disgust. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, growling at the memory.

"_**Breaking News: Christmas Pile up – 10 dead!"**_

_11: 59 p.m._

He felt a wave of faint wind come from behind me and he didn't have to look to find out who it was. He sighed once more and grabbed onto his hair, wanting to pull them out for some reason.

"You've grown too attached to that body of yours, Chrestox." She commented in that faint demure voice of hers.

"Oh shut up! Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, obviously aggravated by the news.

"It wasn't part of the deal. You take your souls. And I take mine. You only tell me who I'm not allowed to take." She answered back, simple and business-like.

He scoffed. And that was the end of their conversation.

12:00 a.m.

**December 25, 2021**

"_Alex Atkinson – World renowned author- signs his Newest Best Seller – The stellar and the Starless – Come before you lose him." "The amazing American author wows the world with his second best seller, catch his book now before its sold out!" "Is Alex Atkinson really having an affair with a twenty-year-old actress?" "How much is the literary rockstar earning now that his book has topped the charts of the New York's Best seller list for two years straight: The Aftermath!" _

Syoaran crumples up the newspaper in his hand, scoffing in bitter resentment and throws the ball into a nearby trash can, hugging his leather jacket to him as he looked behind him. Sakura smiled back at him, amused with his dilemma, and gives him his fedora hat.

"You're amused by my misery?" he asked her, curious.

"As you are amused by mine, I assume." She replies simply, nodding.

He chuckled at her reply, and that was the end of it.

**a/n: **Forgive me for the late update to those who actually read. On my homepage would be a link to my blogspot where I'm officially writing the original plot with the original characters and etc. Sorry for grammar and spelling errors. Help me out? Anyway. Review if you'd like. ^_^

Next chapter?

_"Misery loves company, Nex." _

_"So do you, but then again, you only have me, really."_

Out!


	3. Chapter 3

**"The Crossroad "**

_**- The Death & Demon affair -**_

**Chapter III**

**July 12, 1993**

_8:00 p.m._

His sweet husky voice filled the room; eyes glued to his face – smooth and romantic with expression, beats hanging to his every note. He was like Apollo in blue long-sleeved shirt and cargo pants; like Mozart with gelled and rambunctious black locks as his fingers pranced on the piano; he was like the Beatles, on the verge of stardom. It was like melodious heaven had graced a small starting out bar of New York.

The last note hung in the air, in tune with his last word as the lights dimmed over him and the curtains closed on his performance.

The crowd cheered in revelry; enchanted by the man, captivated by his smoky grey orbs staring into their own and his magnificent notes ringing in their ears, seemingly hypnotizing their hearts into rapid applause. One could tell from simply looking at them, it was one of those nights to remember.

Amidst the crowd, by the back booth, a devilish looking man sat with a glass of scotch in his hand and a rather proud smirk dangling over his lips and beside him, sat the most alluring woman in the joint; eyes aloof and callous with an evident disapproval playing on her quaint pink lips. While the women gossiped and adored the two men that graced their presence (the quiet demon and the enchanting balladeer), the men gawked and stared at the annoyed woman, pondering of her availability and lacking of it – which was quite hard to tell how distant and unwelcoming the two not only looked to them but to each other as well.

It was cold war – Manhattan style.

As the crowd broke out into their own chattering, some still dazed by the recent performance, some distracted by the lack of a follow-up while some had settled on discussing other trivial topics or return to their purpose for being there which to most was drinking.

A waitress, clad in a black fitted shirt that accentuated her physique – something she was clearly proud of by the mere look of her countenance, smiling that small smug yet seductive smile of hers, with a small white pin on her chest with letters that read: Hi! My name is: _Gino _(the last line of the last letter faded and hard to read), walked towards the table by the back row where the two enchanting creatures sat.

The man smirked at her and she froze with a flustered grin on her face, something that the woman sitting beside him couldn't help but be amused of, letting out a giggle to prove just that. He grinned at her, which quickly wiped the smile off the waitress' face in envy.

"I'll have a bottle of your best Bourbon, put it on my tab," he said coolly, eyes still lingering on the beautiful minx beside him, seemingly dancing the tango with her glorious emerald orbs.

She wrote it down, confused for a second if he had a tab but seemingly undeterred did not argue. She turned to the woman, who had now ignored the man's invite for a searching for souls and instead had focused her lifeless eyes on her brutally exhausted blue ones. It made her spine tingle uncomfortably; thoughts hovering closely to death that made her want to flee, drink till the night was weary; fornicate with any or every man she passes by and live.

With a swift hand through her golden locks, she bit down on her lip as she tried to re-compose herself. And with a shaky breath asked: And you, ma'am, with as much sense as respect as the lowest rat in the street would say to the Godfather.

The minx smiled at her nervousness, captivating her with her beauty. She could no longer feel the sense of green envious slime coursing through her veins and instead quickly mingled with other bodily fluids to be replaced with admiration. She was beautiful; breath-taking in the sense of two contrasts – looking so alive and well, yet dreadfully dead and lifeless at the same time. She gave her a sense of life and death at the same time, giving her a unique beauty that to her, Gina, at that moment no one could parallel.

"I'll have a martini, thank you," she said in a soft and faintly demure voice, distracting her from his idolatry stare.

She fumbles for a smile before nodding and writing down their orders and going off to dispense their orders to the bartender, who looked at her confusingly before the same sense of awkward realization set in. He took in the order, put it on the man's tab and gave it back to her.

She came back, eyes more glued to the floor now to them, until she caught from a few feet away a peculiar conversation.

"You know you shouldn't do that to people-"the man said, before getting interrupted the by the dainty woman next to him.

"And like your smug smirk doesn't do the same," she replied back, haughtily.

"Makes me wonder why that old _douchebag_ upstairs made you like that," he said with an arrogant chuckle before meeting her eyes again, the same flattering smirk back on his lips.

"Tut-tut-tut, you shouldn't eaves-"Once again, he was cut off by the dainty little heroine.

"Stop scaring her," she snapped at him, firmly.

He frowned and nodded, before glaring at Gina with what she thought was a pair of black orbs, darker than darkness. She felt the seeping hint of death over her shoulder again and reluctantly set their drinks down before fleeing for her life.

And as if it was just a dream, no one watched her flee, no one saw her flee. And like a nightmare, no one even knew she was there in the first place.

_09:00_

"Here comes Jared Danum!"

The curtains on the stage opened again, the lights shifted on the center, and a man appeared from the right with a guitar now slung around his torso – replacing the piano he had earlier on in the evening. He smiled at the cheering guests, still oblivious to the pair of obscenely smoldering eyes in the back of the crowd.

"He's my prodigy," He would have heard the man say, a proud toothy smirk on his face.

"And he'll be my sacrifice," she would have replied, had he the chance to be near them, with a solemn deplorable tone in her voice.

"_Bull._ I don't even think that _douche_ is that cruel," he'd reply, with an indignant smile, a hint of hesitation in his golden amber orbs.

"God isn't. Mankind is," she'd have reminded him, he too, if he'd been able to hear them. But he was oblivious to the exchange of words between them, more so their presence.

He scanned the crowd with his hazel orbs, one hand running through his curly locks, dissuading them to fall over his eyes; they wouldn't listen and just fell back on them, curtaining the soft yet focused look in them as he begun to strum away at the guitar – feeling the room with a calm and soothing melody before his own harmonious voice decided to join in.

"_It was a love affair like no other,_

_A secret romance no one could parallel,_

_Just when you thought fate was so cruel,_

_She pins you with that significant other,_

_You hate to love and love to hate."_

As the last line of the stanza hung in the air, a smile settled on his lips as his hazel orbs settled on a pair of deep green ones. The two at the back turned their head to look for his angle of interest and found a woman, who looked to be ten years his senior. She smiled, a diamond twinkling by the edge of her lashes. Even death and the demon themselves, could tell what love could be like in that stare.

"_Just when you thought it was over,_

_You feel the high, the love, the thrill, _

_And you run back to her, your lover. _

_The one you love, till God takes your breath away."_

He let the line hang for a few minutes, eyes still glued to hers. She smiled, her hands clasping her chest. She had an awful sense of love filling her heart and as much as she wanted to throw it away, she couldn't. It was hard for her to feel it, one could tell from the look in her eye. But his words, his voice, his eyes, it was hard to ignore the man singing his heart out to strangers he barely knew and enchanting them like a sorcerer and yet still only have eyes for her.

_9:15 p.m._

He traces the rim of his glass, eyes glued on the caramel looking liquid filling a quarter of the glass. He could just smell the alcohol and the corn from it as he stirred it casually by tilting the glass side to side. He downed it after another second of silence, none of them willing to utter another word until he poured another quarter of the bourbon into his glass.

"So why are you here?" she asked, her voice curious and quite bored at the same time. Though, if he would have looked he might have seen the flash of interest brewing in her usually lifeless orbs.

"Only humans are sentimental," she reminded him, earning her a scoff and a smirk from him.

"Don't talk like you were never one, Sakura," he spat back, feigning drunkenness when he knew that they were impenetrable to alcohol.

"I'm Death, Syoaran." She replied in a-matter-of-factly tone, like that was enough of an answer.

"Fine, whatever," he replied, resignedly, downing another of the viscous liquid as it made its burning path down his throat.

"So, why are you here?" she asked again, softer and more refined.

"It was his mother who asked for his gift," he started, eyes distant and staring at the singing man on the stage, before shifting it back to look into hers. He quickly looked away not a second too late; even he gets comfortable staring Death face to face. He runs a hand through his hair, brushing the nervousness that settled into his shoulders before downing another glass.

"She pleaded, sold her soul for this – this man, so breathtaking with his fingers, his voice, his eyes, so, well, good – a gift to mankind. And I brought it into the world," he recounted with a soft smile gracing his features. "I, a reaper of destruction, a knight of the purest of evil, a demon, of all beings, me, did this. God be damned, I did this." He said, smiling proudly at the singing balladeer.

"Then I commend you for wanting to out trump the lord almighty, Chrest," she said, plain and almost condescending. But he couldn't tell from the lack of expression on her face.

"She died shortly out of that. You knew, didn't you?" he asked, eyes daring to look back into hers. She looked back, a sense of guilt filling her at that question and she nodded.

"I don't understand these…people. I don't understand how they can waste all of that for some other person, how they can be so self-less-" he cut himself short, downing another glass as the music ended and he ran another hand through his hair.

"I don't get it, at all," he whispered, eyes falling back onto the surface of the table.

With a sigh, Sakura leaned in closer and squeezed his shoulders. She gave him one of those rare smiles of hers.

"You don't have to. You're a demon, you're Chrestox, Syoaran. And well, you're the Cross Road Demon," she told her, like that was enough of an explanation.

And from the looks of the small smile on his face, it did seem enough.

_11:30 p.m._

He ran a hand through her hair, kissing her desperately like it would be their last; though he hoped and wished his gut feeling to be false, he knew better than to resign and give up. Bare skin grazed with each other, passionate moans filling his dressing room, reminding it of the glory which is tonight.

With one last grasp at bliss, they pulled away, entangled in their own arms and the sweet smell of love.

A long lingering silence filled the space between the, ominous and yet comfortable at the same time. He closed his eyes. She continued to stare at the ceiling, the lights flickering awkwardly as it swayed through and fro.

"I can't leave Jack," she told him, breathless and weak – not because of what had just happened, but the lack of conviction in her words and the uncertainty of following it through.

Hazel orbs snapped back open, a wave of panic rushing through them for a brief second before he bolted to a sitting position and stared at the blue cotton blanket he, minutes ago, considered their haven.

"I-I thought you went here to come with me," he said, not looking at her even when she too had risen up and wrapped her arms around his waist and nested on the crook of his neck.

"I love you, Jared, I really do, I just can't leave him," she told her, voice breaking and tears flowing down her cheeks to his shoulders.

He turns to face her, helpless as he wrapped his arms around her. "I love you, Emily. I'll chase the world away if that would make you happy, but you have to leave him. You don't love him, you never have and never will." He whispered to her, caressing her back and tightening his arms around her. "We're supposed to work," he reminded her, echoing the words she told him when they had their very first fight.

"Oh come on, Jared! I'm 44! You're 29! You're on the brink of adulthood. I'm already in it. I can't drag you down with me! I can't allow you to ruin your future by being me! I'm _fucking_ married for _chris'sake!_" she snapped back, pulling away and staring into his eyes.

"So what? I don't fucking care. I fucking love you!" he told her, voice desperate and pleading, eyes exploring her sole for reconsideration.

"Jared. Please, just take the contract they offered you, okay? It would mean so much to Jack and me. I mean, me" She pleaded, holding his hand tightly, squeezing them like it was enough. It wasn't.

She pulled away from his grasp when he tried to pull her back in, conviction slowly seeping into her actions. She stopped and looked back at him once she was dressed, weary and cautious of the watching pair of hazel still by the bed looking back at her, forlorn and broken-hearted.

"I love you," she whispered in his ear as she approached him and placed one quick and chaste kiss on his lips.

He looked down, ready to break down.

She frowned, waved a silent good bye and left, closing the door behind her, making the light flicker on and off as it swayed on the ceiling, through and fro, again.

He growled as the tears came rushing in and threw the nearest object he could find, which happened to be a picture frame with a picture of him and his parents, and threw it against the door. As the sound of crashing glass echoed in his ears, he sunk back into his bed, burying his face into the pillow, hoping either his tears or the pillow would asphyxiate him.

**July 13, 1993**

_1:30 a.m._

A couple walked out of the front doors with a cool atmosphere coming off of them. The pink neon lights glazed smoothly along their skins, illuminating his brown fedora as well as his trench coat, hiding the beautiful suit he had underneath and inches away from him the beautiful woman in pink.

The pink neon lights spelling out _'flamingo pot' _ with a quirky and comical illustration of a flamingo in a stewing pot, blinked over them bidding _adieu_ in morse code.

There were amused smiles on their faces as they walked along the sidewalk, stopping quite suddenly when they paralleled the alley behind the flamingo pot. Their by the dumpster, drunk and battered was Jared, Syoran's musical prodigy.

She squeezed his arm when he saw the flickering range of emotions in his golden amber orbs. He looked at her, eyes softening as he saw the concern in death's eyes.

"Man's affairs are their own. Not ours," she reminded quickly, a small hint of worry still evident. She might be death, but he was a demon. He has mastery in loop holes.

She pulled him away as the drunken slurs of musical notes poured out of the drunken Jared's mouth.

"He's miserable without her," she said aloud, feeling it important to say it aloud, to make it real. She'd let go of his arm when they reached the other corner of the street, eyes glued on the concrete floor when the silence once again settled in between them.

"All men are without someone. It's what most of these humans desire most, in the deepest chambers of their soul. Misery loves company, Nex," he told her, feigning amusement, smugness, and the smirk on his face.

"So do you, but then again, you only have me really," she replied, still staring at the distance between each of her steps.

He was caught off guard, causing a low rumble of a chuckle to come out of him as he lazily wrapped an arm around the girl, into an almost brotherly hug if it had not looked too possessive at the same time.

**a/n: **I have no apologies, because, well, my inspiration comes at weird times and I kinda feel obligated to post something and hence, posted this sorta rushed chapter. I kinda like the ending to it though and the pace I'm going with so to those who actually read, please bare with me. ^^

Review, cause well, it makes me more happy to comply with more chapters. Though I often have a six page limit per chapter which makes it hard for inspiration to keep up. xD

Oh yeah, the dates are irrelevant, they kind of, jump from time to time, you know? Since they are like other world beings and not bound by human laws.

_Next Chapter:_

_She looked down at the cobbled floor where her pink tote shoes stood on, emerald orbs perplexed and flabbergasted at the same time as she bended down and picked it up, holding it cautiously like it was the most fragile thing in the whole universe. _

_It was a feather. _

"_Whose?" he asked. _

Yeah. Out!


	4. Chapter 4

**"The Crossroad "**

_**- The Death & Demon affair -**_

**Chapter IV**

_Have you ever heard of the man – the man who lives forever?_

_He came with the beginning, of everything and anything. And will leave with the ending, of everything and nothing._

_He was there when dinosaurs roamed, watching, surviving, living through the millennia yet to be told. He may be your father, or your father's father. He might even be that poor man, sitting by the gutter._

_He comes with many names, the disciple, the apostle, Midas, Olegre infinitum, Padre Time and much more._

_He's still here, walking, talking, and breathing. He's still here – the man who lives forever._

**March 6, 2003**

_10:30 p.m._

"Have you heard of the Apostle?" she asked, her sweet voice piercing the quiet night air.

He raised an eyebrow questioningly at her, elusive and slightly perplexed. He nodded simply, laying down on his back and relaxed into the prickling glass blades beneath him. The stars up above stared back at him, revealing secrets he already knew.

"Do you know him?" she asks, demure and yet, still unreadable.

He tilts his head slowly to the side, watching the lack of expression on her face with interest, even as she looked away and watched the sky. He wondered briefly what she was thinking about, before concluding how even he has things he would prefer unknowable. He rolled slowly to his side, leaning on his elbow to watch her, scrutinize her while smiling at the beautiful muse she presented.

"Well, do you?" she snapped, no, demanded tensely.

He chuckled with amusement at her irritation and shook his head no, his hair swaying gracefully over his head before finally dancing with the passing evening breeze.

She frowned, disappointed and unable to hide it, for once.

Silence ensued a little longer, Sakura trying to find words to say; Syoaran, waiting, having nothing to say.

The moon peaked over the trees, its curiosity piqued by the rendezvous amidst the flowers shared only by friendship while secretly, quietly and blindly, wishing it to be more as it lighted their evening with a more inviting ambience.

"He's a myth," he dares the silence, staring into her worried emerald orbs, and said proudly. He was sure that the Apostle was a myth, a fairytale he even used to lure the humans with. Life's a fickle thing; something even the cross road demon could not put up with for an eternity, even if his own existence depended on it.

"He's very much alive, actually," she said, indignantly. But you wouldn't have noticed it if you weren't him. She glared at him for only a second, before the fury disappeared and melted into a melancholy reverie, so much sadder on the face of death herself than anyone else.

"And you know this because?" he asks, humoring her but nonetheless, still doubting the truth behind her words; before realizing: _what reason could death have to lie?_

She knew not to.

"Because I'm not allowed to kill him," she answered, eyes glued on the peeking moan – bashful as it felt her eyes upon it and slowly sneaked back into the safety of the forest trees.

**1604 – Red Death, France**

_Dawn_

The masquerade was beautiful, colorful and magnificently exuberant with life. The music hummed in the air, joyous and so filled with merriment that you would have never noticed the pile of rotting carcass by the far end of the castle, with the victims still moaning and writhing where they lie over their brethren and family, waiting for her merciful grip to finally take them.

She arrives as soon as she hears their sands waning, their last drops echoing loudly in her ears to catch her attention, to alarm her of her duty, to call for her merciful and welcoming grip. She stands beside the pile, clad in a lose dark pink cardigan, resting leisurely over a clean with tank top and a pair of corduroy pants to match her pink tote shoes, beautiful and intoxicating.

Their souls rejoiced at her arrival, one more jubilant than the rest. She smiled sympathetically at them, taking in their fears, pain and misery from this world and making them disappear before leading each one of them, one by one, to the next part of death: eternity. Where it goes, where they go, she would never tell.

She finishes the lot of them, a silent sigh escaping her lips with exhaustion. But death does not weep, she does not pity, and most of all she is not weak. Only then did she realize, the one last soul she failed to notice, gripping onto her for her cold merciful hand, so much more desperately than any soul she had taken.

She looked at his desecrated body, the plague taken up most of his blood and wreaked hundreds of wound over his skin. The little of the pants left on him reeked and had a tapestry of his own blood and a few unknown others on it. The whole of his torso seemed lifeless and ready for death if his chest did not heave with ragged breath.

She leaned down and knelt beside him, making his pain more bearable and death more accommodating to succumb to. As she listened to his slow mortal breathing, haggard and faltering; ready to give in, desperately, to her whims; she listens to the sands of time, to his own unique timepiece – soundless and still. As if, there was no time to lose or no time to bind him by at all.

She stared at the man in disbelief who stared back at her in misery. She could tell the disappointment glimmering in his blue orbs.

"P-peter's the name, Madame," he said in pitiful sounding wheezes; followed by coughing fits and exaggerated intake of breath to refill his empty lungs – fading in and out of life.

She kept quiet as she hovered over his degenerating body, a lingering sense of obligation evident in the trembling hands beneath her sleeves. She was stunned. Not once did she thought that she would ever meet a man that would never die; a clock that will no long tick nor stop; the man who will live with humanity and die with it; the soul who will depart last.

"Would the lovely maiden mind helping thy kind and weak, yet ultimately humble Sir, by sharing her name?" he asked, unabashed, with chapped lips from dehydration and an palpable warm smile – distracting her from the excruciating pain crystal clear in his eyes.

"I go by many names. None of which you will ever know. For you shall elude me till the end of days." She said, smoothly, bending down and sitting on her foot on the floor.

The man, Peter, smiled at her knowingly, sagely as he nodded before throwing another coughing fit.

She sighed, the sound echoing her boredom thoroughly throughout the death chamber. She then laid one small hand on his shoulder as the carcass of dead rotting bodies disappeared in a blink of an eye. The room felt clean once more as she stood up and opened the windows, welcoming the nature's caring ambience enter jubilantly into the locked room.

"What about the plague?" he croaked, finding the strength (or maybe forcing) to sit up and rest his weight on his hand, as he looked up at her with those questioning pools of the deepest blue.

She walked gracefully yet briskly towards him, laying both her hands on his shoulders as she gently held him upright. She inspected the visible wounds that she could find as she held his weight.

"Life is fleeing you, slowly, but-"she stopped herself, biting down on her lower life with hesitance. "No matter how very little is left, it will come back, it being too—attached to leave for very long." She finished, uncomfortable with the relayed information, as an uncomfortable frown settled on her lips while she carefully dragged his half-dead body towards the nearby wall for support.

He took a sharp intake of breath as his bruised back, naked and sore with wounds, contacted with the cold rough wall, tearing the already torn skin as it met with rock and salt, which soon turned into restrained hissings of excruciating pain.

She sat cross-legged, across of him and inspected his wounds more proficiently with a faint look of wonderment dawning on her features; something that Peter seemed to find endearing and amusing, so he smiled.

She frowned at the sight of the smile, mistaking it for delirium and an effect of the plague. He stopped and smiled that warm smile of his, although it was still unable to hide the grim and pain still flowing through his loins, at her again and stared into her eyes, intense and unafraid.

"Will death ever lay her sweet velvety blanket over me?" he asked and she answered as truthfully as she could have then, "Yes."

"When?" he pressed, though his gaze never wavered nor did the weak flickering of life in his eyes.

"When the world ends and life no longer matters." She answered, smoothly and gravely at the same time, in the same manner that death always answers.

**March 6, 2003**

_10:34 p.m._

"You do not kill, Nex," he said defensively, like he was battling against a law, a religion, or some moral belief. He eyed her again, watching her actions intently waiting for a catch, a trap, something to dissuade him of his inner beliefs.

She nodded, surrendering in concurrence. He stayed quiet for the next few minutes, watching her still and anticipating the worst.

"Why do you speak of him now?" he asked warily and in return, she cast a brief gaze on him; emerald meeting amber in a meaningful stare.

"Nostalgia? Sentimentality? The answer? I am faint of assurance to know," she answered, averting her gaze once more and began fiddling with her fingers as they held her glass in front of her. She stared at her smudged reflection, focusing on the emerald blobs that stared back at her.

"You have feelings for this bizarre man?" he asked, astonished by the conclusion he came to and couldn't deny the uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling of envy seep into his chest. He feigned laughter, happy to remember for that brief few seconds that he **was** a demon and not a human susceptible to emotions, let alone Death's guile.

Here forehead creased as her eyebrow furrowed in perplexed contemplation and said without much conviction, "Death does not love; she does not fee; anything and nothing; neither sentimentality nor pity."

"But you feel all those about this man?" he corrected her, regretfully, but still, he kept on.

"This man – this myth, has a name, and his name is Peter," she replied, angry that he would dare defy her rules, her purpose to pursue some human experience that she does not or will not ever understand or possess.

**1604**

_Morning_

She stared back at him, warily confused by the presence of a smile on his face at her recent divulging of the secrets of life, of time, of death. It was a rare opportunity that she was not entirely sure of the consequences. She did not fear destiny, for destiny will happen in its due course. And she knew this man was destined to be this man, and she was destined to be in his presence. For whatever reason, God will keep his secret to himself. Although, how this man came to be is still a question that she longs to answer perpetually.

"Why do you smile?" she asked, raising an eyebrow accusingly when he started to laugh, in a wheezing tone and clutched his chest and stomach at every new curls of laughter.

"Because, thy lady, you're worth eternity," her answered with that warm smile, warmer now that life had slowly began crawling back into his pallor and spraying it with well deserved sunny rays and smoothing back his chapped lips with that of a virgin man – never been kissed, never been touched.

She smiled against herself and ran a hand through his golden locks, smooth and silky, trying to hold onto his neutrality a little longer. But time was not in his control when life was involved, and soon enough he heard his heart racing in his chest, like the welcoming beat of warior drums- ready to fight once more.

"Will I ever see you again?" he asked, desperately clutching onto the sleeve of her cardigan. She looked down at him, a frown crawling onto her lips as she memorized his well-chiseled chin, his turning fairer into fairer skin, his deep blue orbs and wavy golden tresses.

"If Lady Destiny deems it so; but no man lives to flee me, twice in a lifetime." She said with a soft endearing smile. She cupped his cheek with her small, cold yet soft hand.

He laughed and closed his eyes, sleepy and weak as he welcomed his soul back into his body.

**March 6, 2003 **

_11:00 p.m._

"So you do care for…this…peter!" He opined, distastefully, while scratching his chin to distract himself from the awkward sensation in his chest cavity. She looked at him coldly, monotonously and indifferently, though he could see the burning of life in her usually unresponsive orbs.

"He's just something to look forward to," she answered softly, as if it was the most practical thing to say. And for her, it was. For him though, he'd love to digress.

"He's just that one person who'll be there when everything else ends," she finished, defensively as she looked back at him and smiled "his" smile for him.

He couldn't help the frown that reached his lips as he raised an eyebrow suspiciously; wondering if she knew something he didn't; and somehow, he knew that she did and he could only fear the worst.

**March 5, 2003 – New York**

_10:00 a.m._

He lied on his back, with his vision blurring and the burning pain in his chest distracting him from the slit up open wrists limp on the carpet floor as his veins eagerly expelled his blood out his wounds.

She appeared just as his heart had slowed down and death would have began to overcome his soul. She hovered over him, much like the last time, with a more dissatisfied smile this time as she said, "You're going break my rule." The sentence hovered in the air, comfortably like it was the most normal thing to say at that moment. And from the look on his relieved face, it might have been.

He chuckled weakly and stared into her eyes, recalling the same soft gaze he had received decades ago. He tried to move his hand to reach for her, but found them twitching and unwilling to do his bidding. He frowned in disappointment, glaring down at them as silence enveloped them in its loving grasp.

She watched him miserably, before deciding to sit down beside him and letting her clean crisp pink cloak touch the pool of blood beside him, leaving no imprint on the cloth, she left it there. She stared at his apartment, waiting for anything to happen. She knew she could only wait for his life to come crawling back in.

"Sorry, I just couldn't wait to see you again," he said in a whisper.

**Author's note: **I had just finished and I must say, I am delighted with the outcome. I was literally inspired with this chapter; though it was not the intended chapter I had in mind to follow the previous one. But nonetheless, I think it's a good fit and I had a chance to give Sakura more character than focusing too much on Syoaran.

Also, as a warning, Peter would sadly not be a recurring character, although I would love to use him in a few more chapter in the future. He was an unintentional character that I find tragic and would love to use for plot device someday, but not at the moment.

Another note would be regarding Red Death, it is purely fictional and is loosely based on Edgar Allan Poe's Red Death from his short story: **The Masquearade of Red Death,** which happened to be one of our reading assignments during my third year in high school. It was a lovely, haunting and tragic story which people should read, not only for the author but the depth of it as well.

I apologize for the slow-paced romance, but I just really want them to fall in love, I'd just want it to happen on their own will, nothing imposed by me. LOL. If that makes sense. Also, as a last note, I would like to take the opportunity to applaud this story's most loyal reader: **sas420, **for her support and praise. Also, I've noted in the past chapters that this novel/story had been inspired by both Neil Gaiaman's Sandman Graphic Novel as well as the load of hours watching Supernatural. The two kind of blended together in my head, hence the plot bunny. Much to thank for! :D

Well, my midterm exam's next week and I just wanted to post something to fill in the month. See ya! Keep reviewing! Thanks! :D


	5. Chapter 5

**"The Crossroad "**

_**- The Death & Demon affair -**_

**Chapter V**

_We all had names we never used._

_We were all orphans who never knew, _

_What life we had before, cause the world_

_had changed and so did everything and all._

* * *

_**The Orphan Arch**_

**January 24, 2986**

_**Area 67 (Manhattan, New York)**_

_On top of the Reich Building, _

_The Roof_

The third millennium for the human race was not very far; who would have ever though that they'd survive to see it, only to be wiped out of existence soon enough, but that would be ruining the story in the making. Death dwindled by the edge of an abandoned building that looked old enough that it would crumble the moment you touched it, but it did not stir with any of her giggle or her lightweight jump or her heavy balancing.

She looked around at the large expanse of barren ground surrounding the only building that stood in all these emptiness, covered with a white coat so white that even it could have frozen you on sight.

She was waiting, it was obvious with the bored expression on her face.

She was waiting for him.

It was a bizarre relationship with two supernatural entities that would soon enough prove to stand the test of time.

He soon appeared not too far, with a lit cigarette in his hand as he sat by the edge on the opposite side of the roof. He smirked at her, a mischievous guilty smirk filled with more amusement than he deserved as he blew a cloud of smoke in her direction as he unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt.

She coughed and glared, stopping and just standing with a hand on her hip by the other part of the roof, scrutinizing him and his smirk.

"What's so important?" he asked, interrupting the serene silence over the remnants of what could have been a great building of a great city.

"The last humans stuck ten feet under this building," she answered simply, looking expectantly at the man a yard away from her.

_Underneath the Reich Building,_

_Boiler Room_

_**Nathan**_

I sometimes wake up and feel like flying. So, I stand on the bed and jump; meeting the wooden floor with my face as I fall to the ground, but even though it keeps happening, I keep finding myself having the same dream and still constantly falling. It makes me wonder if it's better for me to grow a pair of wings or just keep trying?

Nathan Hummer. Nineteen.

**Superman. **

_**Claire**_

I used to have this little box under my bed, an old pink colored shoe-box I found lying around the attic. It's where I used to keep all my treasures and where someday, I hoped will include him: Kevin Gordon. I always imagined I'd even have to change that box into one giant house, just so he'll fit. But I let go of it somewhere along the way, it was just too much weight to bring along.

Claire Johnson. Eighteen.

**Dolce Cobanna.**

_**Logan**_

I'm Logan. I don't know a lot of things; in fact, I know very few. I've never known what its like to have a family. I've never known how its like to have a home. I've never known how its like to be normal. What I do know though, easily enough, is that life is hell and all I can trust are my weapons. And my weapons would only hurt those I aim it at and not me. Not me.

Logan Abrams. Eighteen.

**Sgt. Arms.**

_**Leslie**_

I used to love toys: bears, bunnies, you name it. One toy was particularly more special to me than the rest, her name was Elly. Elly, the elephant. We used to spend every waking moment together, until I lost her to the fire, ten years ago, along with my other toys. Now I'm all alone and I'm just scared.

Leslie Menice. Sixteen.

**Princess. **

_On top of the Reich building,_

_Roof top_

"Why am I here then?" He asked.

"Because I want you to be here," she answered simply once more, as if it was enough.

He grinned; that was proof enough that it was.

**Author's note: **I know it's a wee bit short. But I've been recently very occupied with roleplaying on RPGateway. You should try it out and search for katastrophy if you ever need some helping out. On to the explanation, this is just an introduction to a more decent plot which revolves around these four people and how they affect Sakura and Syoaran along the way. I'll promise a good five more chapters before disappearing again, hopefully. xD Anyway, feel free to review or send me some lovin' by adding me to your alert lists. Thanks!


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